Dark Money Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  71

  72

  73

  74

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  DARK MONEY

  Larry D. Thompson

  STORY MERCHANT BOOKS

  LOS ANGELES

  2015

  Copyright © 2015 by LARRY D. THOMPSON. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author.

  http://www.larrydthompson.com

  Story Merchant Books

  400 South Burnside Avenue #11B

  Los Angeles, California 90036

  http://www.storymerchant.com/books.html

  This is a work of fiction. All of the events, characters, and organizations portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination and are used factiously. Any similarities to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For my friends in Fort Worth, particularly Arlington Heights High School, who have now become my faithful readers

  PROLOGUE

  The convoy of three troop trucks made its way through the northeastern part of Saudi Arabia on their way to join with other American troops in Dhahran. Jack Bryant, a lawyer from Texas who was called up from his practice in Beaumont, was riding shotgun in the front truck. He was a Sergeant First Class and the senior NCO in the convoy. They passed through several villages deserted or nearly so out of fear of the rapidly moving Iraq army. The convoy approached another village, apparently abandoned, when Jack raised his hand.

  “Stop. I saw a glint of metal in a balcony about a hundred yards ahead on the right and then it disappeared. I’m getting out my side and will use the door as a shield. Open your door as quietly as possible. Go back to the men and tell them to maintain complete silence. I don’t even want to hear the click of a cigarette lighter until I signal.”

  The driver was a young private named Walt Frazier, also a Texan from the small town of Wharton. He nodded as he opened the driver’s door and dropped from the truck. He made his way back to the other vehicles, delivering the message. Jack propped his rifle on the open window ledge and watched the balcony, occasionally flicking his eyes around the rest of the village but seeing no movement. Walt returned and settled into his seat. “See anything, Sarge?”

  “Not yet, but I think he’s there, just waiting to ambush us when we pass. We can outwait him.”

  Seconds turned into minutes. Jack continued to focus on the balcony. After twenty minutes the driver was thinking that his sergeant must have been imagining something when a head slowly surfaced above the wall on the balcony. Jack waited until he could see the mouth and fired one round, striking the Iraq sniper directly between the eyes. The enemy soldier dropped from sight.

  Bryant climbed back into his seat and told his driver they could now move out.

  “You sure, Sarge? Could be you only wounded him.”

  “Trust me. I don’t miss from this distance. He’s dead. Let’s get going. I hope we’ll still have a little light when we get to the barracks.”

  The convoy stopped in front of an abandoned oil field warehouse close to dusk on February 25, 1991. The concrete reflected heat of 104 degrees as the American troops piled out of the trucks to assemble around their sergeant. The men were young, around twenty, many younger, a few slightly older. Most of them had joined the National Guard, expecting to spend a weekend every month with units close to their homes as a means of paying college tuition or supplementing income from their regular jobs. Very few ever expected to see combat. That was before Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait and President Bush began Operation Desert Storm.

  Sergeant Bryant waited until they quietened before he spoke. A part-time soldier himself, he was not much for military formalities. “Listen up. This warehouse has been converted to a barracks. It’s not air conditioned, but there are large fans that will cut the temperature by ten or fifteen degrees, and it’s February; so the temperature tonight ought to drop to around eighty. You’ll find cots inside and they’re setting up a chow line. Latrine is around back. Enjoy the luxury. It’ll probably be the last night you’ll have a roof over your head for a while, and it’ll damn sure be your last hot meal until we’re finished with this son of a bitch.”

  “How long is this war going to last?” one of the men asked.

  “The flyboys have been pounding the hell out of the Iraq forces. The ground war started yesterday. We’ll be heading to the front tomorrow. The word from General Schwarzkopf’s headquarters is that they can’t hold out much longer.”

  “Sarge, I hear they’re using Scuds. Is that going to be a problem?”

  The sergeant shook his head. “Shouldn’t be around here. This area is protected by Patriot missiles. They’ve been damn successful in knocking Scuds out of the air. Now, grab your gear and pick a bunk.” He glanced at his watch. “Chow line should be open in fifteen minutes. After that, clean your weapons one more time.”

  “Come on, Sarge. Mine are cleaner than a fresh washed-baby’s butt.”

  “I hear you, but one more time, just for good measure. Then, get a good night’s sleep. It may be your last for a few days.”

  By eight o’clock the chow line was closed and weapons had been cleaned. Some of the men were playing penny-ante poker, using a bunk for a table. Some were writing letters back to wives, girlfriends or moms. Others had taken off their boots and lay on top of their sleeping bags, fully clothed, packs and weapons close at hand. Six of the troops were members of the National Guard from Texas, including Sergeant Bryant, the “old man” of the outfit at thirty. He had served in the 101st Airborne after finishing college and was beginning a law practice in Beaumont when President Bush came calling. The Texans bunked close to each other. Bryant had struck up a friendship with Frazier. He was one of the guard members who planned to serve his six years, mainly on weekends, as a means of paying his tuition at the local college.

  They talked about their families, the just completed football season, and soon ran out of topics as, one by one, they closed their eyes, knowing that four o’clock the next morning would come far too soon. Walt was drifting int
o sleep when he heard a whistling sound and someone shouted, “Incoming!” Walt dove under his bunk, as if that would provide any protection from the missile that crashed through the metal roof and exploded, slinging fiery shrapnel from one end of the warehouse to the other.

  Next came screams of pain as smoke filled the building. Then the beams that supported the ceiling buckled and, along with the jagged, tin roof, began to fall on the troops, inflicting more injury and death. Walt crawled from under his cot and witnessed the devastation. He tried to pull another man from under a cot across the aisle by tugging on his leg. Horrified, he realized that the leg was not attached to a body. Dropping it, he looked around. Some men were lying motionless, probably dead. Others were holding gaping wounds in their abdomens. Still others were trapped under beams and pieces of the roof, begging for help.

  Through all the screams and yelling, somehow Walt heart Jack, speaking in a surprisingly low voice, “Walt, I need some help here.”

  Walt turned to find his sergeant’s leg trapped under a beam.

  “Can you get this thing off me?”

  Walt considered his options and dropped to his back on the floor. “Sarge, I’m going to try to get my feet under it and push it up with my legs. If I can get it up a few inches, you think you can scrabble out from under it?”

  Jack nodded. “Give it a try.”

  Walt positioned his feet and strained so hard that the blood vessels in his temples were bulging. The beam didn’t budge. “Let me rest just a few seconds. I’m going to move my feet down a little and try again.”

  This time when he drove his legs, the beam started to move.

  “One more inch, Walt, and I think I can get out.”

  Walt shoved the beam again and the beam moved a few more inches. Jack was having to force himself through the pain shooting throughout his leg, but he made it. Walt lowered his feet and sucked in a breath. After a few seconds, he got to his feet. “Can you walk?”

  Outside he could hear sirens. Ambulances were on the way. “Not without some help.”

  “I’m going to pull you up. Put your arm over my shoulder.”

  Jack screamed as Walt pulled. “I’m all right. Just get me out of here.”

  Walt sized up the devastation around them and started picking his way through debris and bodies. Some of the men cried to him for help, fearful that another missile might land at any minute. “I’ll be back as soon as I get Bryant out to the ambulances.”

  When he arrived at the door, someone was opening it from the outside. “Here, let me help.” They moved Jack to a blanket where they lowered him to the ground. “I’m a medic. Let me have a look at that leg.”

  The leg just above the knee and the knee itself was crushed. “Any other injuries? How about your head?”

  “No, just my leg,” Jack replied through the pain etching his face.

  “I’m going to get you something for that pain. Just lie still and an ambulance will take you to the base hospital. You’ll be on a flight to Landstuhl in the morning. They have surgeons in Germany that can deal with this.”

  “If I pass out, tell them not to cut off my leg.”

  The medic nodded. Walt was listening to the exchange. “I’m going back inside.” He turned and walked back to the door and into the building. Over the next several hours he made ten more trips, returning each time with a seriously wounded soldier. After the ones who were still alive were rescued, he was part of the team that retrieved the bodies. When daylight broke, he dropped to sit against a truck and buried his head in his arms as sobs wracked his body.

  1

  Jack Bryant turned his old red Dodge Ram pickup into the driveway of the Greek revival mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac in Westover Hills, an exclusive neighborhood in Fort Worth. He was amused to see Halloween ghosts and goblins hanging from the two enormous live oaks that fronted the house. The driveway led to wrought iron gates that permitted entry to the back. A heavy-set Hispanic man with a Poncho Villa mustache in a security guard uniform stood beside the driveway near the gates, clipboard in hand. He was unarmed.

  Jack stopped beside him and lowered his window. “Afternoon, officer. Fine autumn day, isn’t it?”

  The guard sized up the old pick-up and the man wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. “You here to make a delivery?”

  Jack reached into his left rear pocket and retrieved his wallet from which he extracted a laminated card. “No, sir. Name’s Jackson Douglas Bryant. I’m a lawyer and a Tarrant County Reserve Deputy. My friend, Walter Frazier, is part of the Governor’s Protective Detail. Said Governor Lardner is attending some big shindig here tomorrow night and asked me to lend a hand in checking the place out before he hits town. My name should be on that clipboard.”

  The guard took the card, studied it closely and handed it back to Jack. He flipped to the second page. “There it is. Let me open the gates. Park down at the end of the driveway. You’ll see another wall with a gate. Walk on through and you’ll find your way to the ballroom where the party’s being held tomorrow. I’ll radio Sergeant Frazier to let him know you’re on your way.”

  The gates silently opened, and Jack drove slowly to the back, admiring the house and grounds. The house had to be half a football field in length. Giant arched windows were spaced every ten feet with smaller ones above, apparently illuminating the second floor. To Jack’s right was an eight foot wall. First security issue. Not very hard to figure out a way to scale it. Fortunately, cameras and lights were mounted on fifteen foot poles that appeared to blanket the area.

  Jack parked where he was directed and climbed from his truck. Before shutting the door, he took his cane from behind the driver’s seat. He flexed his left knee. It felt pretty good. He might not even need the cane. Still, he usually carried it since he never knew when he might take a step and have it buckle under him. Better to carry the cane than to fall on his ass.

  He found himself in front of another wall. He was studying it when Walt came through the gate. Walt was ten years his junior, six feet, two inches of solid muscle. He bounded across the driveway to greet Jack. They first shook hands and then bear-hugged each other like the old army buddies that they were.

  Walt pulled back and looked at Jack. “Damn, it’s good to see you. Been, what, about three years since you were in Austin for some lawyer meeting?”

  “Could have been four. I think I was practicing in Beaumont then.”

  “Still carrying the cane. That injury at the barracks causing you more problems?”

  “No worse, not any better. Every once in a while the damn knee gives out with no warning. I may have to put an artificial one in some day. Meantime, the cane does just fine. I’ve got a collection of about twenty of them in an old whiskey barrel beside the back door of my house. This one is my Bubba Stick. Picked it up at a service station a while back.”

  Walt’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Follow me into the garden. There are some tables there. We can sit for a few minutes while I explain what’s coming down.”

  They walked through the gate. Beyond it was a garden, obviously tended by loving hands. Cobblestone paths wound their way through fall plantings of Yellow Copper Canyon Daises, Fall Aster, Apricot-colored Angel’s Trumpet, Mexican Marigold and the like. Walt led the way to a wrought iron table beside a fish pond with a fountain in the middle, spraying water from the mouth of a cherub’s statue. The two friends settled into chairs, facing the pond.

  “This is what the help call the little garden. In a minute we’ll go around the house to the big garden and pool that fronts the ballroom. You know whose house this is?”

  “No idea.”

  “Belongs to Oscar Hale. He and his brother, Edward, are the two richest men in Fort Worth. Their daddy was one of the old Texas wildcatters. The two brothers were worth a few hundred million each, mainly from some old oil holdings down in South Texas and out around Midland. Life must have been pretty good. Then it got better about ten years ago when the oil boys started fracking a
nd horizontal drilling. Counting proven reserves still in the ground, word is they’re worth eighty billion, well, maybe just a little less now that we have an oil glut.”

  “Edward still around?”

  One of the servers in the kitchen had seen the two men and brought two bottles of water on a silver tray.

  “Thanks…Sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “Sarah Jane, Walt. My pleasure. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  Walt took a sip from his bottle as Sarah Jane returned to the house. “Yeah. His legal residence is still in Fort Worth, and I understand he and his wife vote in this precinct, only they really live in New York City. He always kept an apartment there. When the oil money started gushing, he upgraded to a twenty room penthouse that I hear overlooks Central Park. He’s big in the arts scene up there, opera, ballet, you name it. He’s also building the Hale Museum of Fine Art here in Fort Worth.”

  Jack nodded his head. “Okay, I know who you’re talking about. My girlfriend is thrilled about another museum in Fort Worth. She’s into that kind of thing. When I moved here, she took me to every damn one of them. The western art in the Amon Carter museum was really all that interested me. So, the Hales play with the big boys, and the governor’s coming. From what I read, Governor Lardner travels all over the world. Never seems to have a problem. What’s the big deal here?”

  “Fundraiser. One of those damn PACs, Super PACs, Leadership PACs, dark PACs. I can’t keep up with all of them. Far as I’m concerned, they’re just ways for the super-rich to buy themselves a politician. Both parties have so many, nobody can keep track. The one tomorrow night is a 501 (c)(4), something like that. Name is Stepper Official Strategies, SOS for short. It’s what they call a dark money organization. It can even take unlimited money from any damn billionaire, even from big corporations. Lardner is the keynote speaker, only the money doesn’t go directly to him. There’s a guy named Kevin O’Connell who runs SOS and its sister Stepper PAC. It’s all hush-hush. O’Connell doesn’t even have to disclose who contributes. That kind of lid on who contributes makes those big corporations and billionaires very happy. With another presidential election just over the horizon, I hear he’s expecting pledges in excess of a hundred million tomorrow.”